Years to be ripe for death. He is a youth,
A very boy, on whose unshaded cheek
The spring-time glow is lingering. ’Twas but now
His mother left me, with a timid hope
Just dawning in her breast: and I—I dared
To foster its faint spark. You smile!—Oh! then
He will be saved!
Eri. Nay, I but smiled to think
What a fond fool is Hope! She may be taught
To deem that the great sun will change his course